


Like The River Running Wild

by ScullysGone



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Horses, Native American Character(s), Pain, Personal Growth, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Surprises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullysGone/pseuds/ScullysGone
Summary: He gave her his heart, and a horse. She'll give him everything she has in return.





	1. Open MInd

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I suck at summaries, so sorry about that. If you haven't read "Wyoming Christmas" you should do that before reading this.
> 
> Vic wants to surprise Walt by learning to ride her horse while he's on a hunting trip. But it's never that simple with Vic. I did rotations at a therapeutic riding center during nursing school, and it was AMAZING. These places are a fantastic physical therapy alternative to traditional methods. But, horse are ALSO extremely emotionally healing animals. This story was always going to be about more than just Vic learning to ride.
> 
> Rated T because this is Vic and LANGUAGE.

**Chapter 1: Open Mind**

* * *

 

Omar's plane taxis down the dirt runway, heavy-laden with guns and rucks and men. Three men to be exact, and twice as many guns; a hunting trip to the mountains requires an excessive amount of testosterone and firepower.

Vic sits in her truck, the heater blowing hard as the single-engine speeds past her and lifts into the cold mountain air. Who the hell goes on a damn bear-hunting trip in the middle of the damn winter, anyway? Men. Men do this kind of shit.

Men do stupid shit like walk around in blizzards and knee-deep snow with guns and call it hunting and survival. But, whatever, if it makes him happy, she thinks with a shiver and a shrug.

Shit, it's cold.

Walt had smiled and said she would be surprised how content she would be with the cabin to herself for a few days. She hadn't thought she needed a break, and still doesn't, but then she got the idea to surprise him and is eager to get started.

Well, sort of eager. And more like 'to get it over with' than 'to get started'. Kind of like the anticipation and anxiety she had right before the academy. Sure, the end would be worth the effort, but her ass was gonna pay for it and that was a less-than-awesome prospect. At least she will be able to limp around the cabin without an audience.

By the time he's home again, maybe she won't be. Maybe it won't be that bad and she'll nail it like she nailed qualifying and her detective's exam. She puts the truck in gear and heads north, the clear Wyoming sky above, the frozen earth beneath and the reality of possible broken bones in front of her.

Sarah Two Feathers is waiting at the big barn of the 4-S; married to Jack Simmons for forty years, Sarah looks like she stepped off the Rez yesterday. Her black and silver hair hangs in neat, matching braids down either shoulder; in a strange sort of mirror-image, they match the dark-tanned moccasin boots covering her legs. If she's wearing an overcoat at all, Vic can't tell.

"Jesus, aren't you freezing?"

Vic is zipped inside the insulated Carhartt coveralls she bought her first Wyoming winter, layered over sub-zero thermals and her heaviest jeans; the down-filled collar of her department coat is pulled up to her ears and she's burying her nose behind the zipper. Still shivering, she might as well be naked, dammit. Being from Philly doesn't matter; Wyoming cold is different. She's said it to Walt a thousand times. It's just freaking colder.

"No. Soon, you won't be either."

"Unless you're gonna teach me to ride this thing in your living room, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna be freezing my ass all week."

Sarah smiles and Vic feels petty for a moment. She hasn't even said a proper hello to Walt's friend's wife and she's already bitching.

"I'm sorry. I just really really hate being cold. I appreciate this. So, thank you. I'm Vic Moretti."

"I am Sarah. Sheriff Walt is a friend. He has known much sorrow, but I see the joy has returned to his eyes. My husband and I saw it when he came to buy your horse. We are happy to be a part of something that will bring him happiness."

Vic smiles and nearly spills a tear down her frozen cheek. The compliment is unexpected.

"Well, um, like I told him, and you're about to find out - I can't ride a horse. This is probably a really bad idea."

Sarah Two Feathers smiles again.

"Doing something that is hard, for sake of another, is never a bad idea, Ms. Moretti. You will accomplish what you have set out to do"

"Vic. Please, it's just Vic. And I hope you're right."

The older woman turns into the barn, Vic follows and the two women stop in front a stall half way in. While Walt and Henry and Omar were at the airfield, loading and laughing and leaving, Jack Simmons went to Walt's place to pick up the mare. Ruby had made all the arrangements, at Vic's request; wouldn't have been much of a surprise if Walt had overheard her trying to do it from the cabin.

Jack brought everything she would need, including the saddle Walt had taken her to pick out. She'd been frustrated and short with him, snapping that she didn't know the first thing about saddles and wouldn't know 'the right one' if it had actually bit her in the ass. But he was Walt, and he was patient and quiet and suggested one after another until she finally stabbed her finger at one with a sharp 'fine, this one'.

Seeing it on the rack next to the hitching post in the middle of the barn pulls a catch in her throat. She can be a real piece of work sometimes. Thank God he's in love with her; love breeds forgiveness and she will need a hell of a lot of it in the years to come.

Sarah's voice breaks her thoughts.

"She has been waiting for you."

"Excuse me?"

Vic looks at Sarah with unbridled confusion. After seven years, she still isn't used to the way the Indians talk.

"Your mare. She has been waiting for you."

In the slow motion way a cup tips over, hot coffee or cold milk erupting over the lip and falling like art to the floor, the Philly-accented 'whatever' forms in Vic's throat and begins to roll across her tongue. As the word, with its judgement and disregard, pushes against her pursed lips, she's hit with the memory of a phrase her grandfather used often and loudly.

If you do what you've always done, you'll get the same shit you've always gotten.

Sarcasm. Bravado.

She's tired of the same shit. It's been a less-than existence. Sure, there have been moments of good. Of happy, even. But not enough. And not what she wants anymore. She wants the happy, dammit.

She pushes the 'whatever' back down her throat and looks into her horses eyes.

"Tell me what to do."


	2. Failure Is Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bare with me guys....

Chapter 2: Failure is Inevitable

* * *

The first few days are a blur of basic horsemanship; grooming, leading, and tacking, over and over again. With purpose, she approached every step as if she has something to learn, not something to scoff at. When Sarah talks about burs and hot spots and hoof-rot, Vic listens.

She goes with the grain, knows the difference between a stiff brush and soft brush and when to use the curry comb. She can tie a quick-release, knows where the saddle should sit, and how to tighten the cinch. The bridle was a little trickier than she expected, but it likely had something to do with the paralyzing fear of getting her hand bitten off.

At the end of the third day, she feels pretty damn proud of herself; she can take her horse from pasture to prepped with minimal input from her Cheyenne teacher. She's surprised to feel genuinely comfortable in her new skills. The swagger in her step is small, but she's not going to hide it. She deserves a little strutting, dammit.

She prays it's hiding the trepidation simmering just under the surface. Time to shit or get off the pot. She has just under ninety-six hours to seal this deal and the real work hasn't even started. Stepping from the truck on the fourth morning, Vic sucks in a blistery Wyoming winter breath and holds the wind in her lungs, allowing the frigid air to harden her resolve. It's Riding Day.

The mare's name is Boss Lady's Baby and she's wondered more than once if Walt picked the horse for that very reason. Vic is strong-willed and the potential double meaning is not lost on her. Over the last three days, the relationship between equine and law-woman has evolved and Vic now comfortably calls the Appaloosa 'Baby'.

Actually, she calls her all kinds of variations. Baby Girl. Big Baby. Baby's Butt. Maybe Baby. The climate-controlled arena at the 4-S is pure heaven compared to the cold-ass elements outside, but Sarah says Walt won't only want to ride in the spring so she better teach Vic to work the horse in the snow, too. When that happens, Vic and Baby both do a little growling and snarling at their Cheyenne mentor. Those are the times Vic calls the mare Big Ass Baby, just to make herself feel better.

She had never been the horse-crazy little girl some of her schoolmates were. When they were prancing around the playground with syncopated steps and invisible reins and squealing neighs, she was clearing the jungle gym of would-be criminals wearing her brothers' hand-me-down jeans.

When Walt insisted she run the Running Eagle Challenge, against the better judgement of both herself and the Tribal Council, she'd felt only fear and distrust of Walt's Horse. After falling off, walking for miles, and finally lying down to die in the dirt of the Rez, she figured she'd been justified in her cynicism. The leather-tied bag of bones had run off and left her.

But that was then and this is now and she walks to the barn with purpose. Now, it's time to make the big steps happen. Finished tacking, they walk side by side into the arena where Sarah stands waiting. The closer they get, Vic can feel the nervous energy rise inside her as if it's coming up from the damn dirt. Every step only heightens her senses, the tingling on the back of her neck intensifying. By the time they stop walking, she feels like she's about to puke her guts up.

"Take your place, Ms Vic."

Vic stands on the horse's left side, her left hand full of reins and saddle horn, right hand firmly gripping the Cheyenne roll at the rear. Her knuckles are white and her palms are sweaty and she can feel the stupid rumbling fear in the pit of her stomach. She's busted down doors in crack houses, dodged bullets from all directions, and even survived Chance Gilbert and his circus-freak-side-show family's fetish for baseball bats and balogna.

"Dammit!"

When her knees begin to tremble, she swears out loud and drops the leather straps. Doubling over, she plants her hands on her knees more to keep from passing out than to stop the shaking. Air is dragged in and thrust out of her lungs in ragged succession and she gets more pissed off when the tears fall before she even feels them swell behind her close lids.

"Jesus, dammit, I can't do this!"


	3. Slow Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - I had to go back and fix the end of Ch 2. I apologize - I was in a rush, trying to get it done and posted before I left work. It felt stunted. Too quick. Vague.
> 
> So, I fixed it :-)

 

**Chapter 3: Slow Burn**

* * *

 

_But that was then and this is now and she walks to the barn with purpose. Now, it's time to make the big steps happen. Finished tacking, they walk side by side into the arena where Sarah stands waiting. The closer they get, Vic can feel the nervous energy rise inside her as if it's coming up from the damn dirt. Every step only heightens her senses, the tingling on the back of her neck intensifying. By the time they stop walking, she feels like she's about to puke her guts up._

_"Take your place, Ms Vic."_

_Vic stands on the horse's left side, her left hand full of reins and saddle horn, right hand firmly gripping the Cheyenne roll at the rear. Her knuckles are white and her palms are sweaty and she can feel the stupid rumbling fear in the pit of her stomach. She's busted down doors in crack houses, dodged bullets from all directions, and even survived Chance Gilbert and his circus-freak-side-show family's fetish for baseball bats and bologna for christsake._

_But this something different. So fucking different and raw and nearly unnameable. Something burning her insides like an acid attack; this is that PTSD shit. She can't breathe and she can't move and the helmet and the baby and no control._

_"Dammit!"_

_When her knees begin to tremble, she swears out loud and drops the leather straps. Doubling over, she plants her hands, more to keep from passing out than to stop the shaking. Air is dragged in and thrust out of her lungs in ragged succession and she gets more pissed off when the tears fall before she even feels them swell behind her close lids._

_"Jesus, dammit, I can't do this! I can't fucking breathe!"_

* * *

 

Buried under denial and unconsciousness, hidden pains escape the healing and the moving on. They burrow deep, festering quietly, waiting for the worst possible second to come exploding out like some nasty-ass abscess.

She's on her knees in the dirt, barfing and cussing and crying.

Everything she thought she'd left behind. Everything. Philly and the IA investigation. Donolato's suicide and Gorski. Even the time her dad took two in the chest and spent 3 weeks on a vent. Ancient shit. Fucking childhood memories. Who needs this shit?

Branch's blown-apart face, bloated and grey and so fucking dead. Nighthorse and Hector and Ferg getting fucking abducted by that fucking Mick, Eddie Harp. Holy hell, what is happening to her? It feels like Baby is standing on her chest, hooves and dirt and horse shit grinding into her sternum.

Like a rogue wave, more memories rise up inside. The helmet and the bat and that fucking bologna. Walt is shot. Henry is beaten. Her baby is dead.

Her daughter is dead.

She grabs hand-fulls of red dirt off the ground and launches them with every ounce of fear and pain coursing through her body. Baby startles and jumps away, kicking more red confetti into Vic's face and blinding her. She barely registers Sarah's movements; the old woman calms the mare and moves her to the fence. She walks back to Vic and gentle lowers herself to her knees.

She hands Vic the small kerchief she keeps tucked in her beaded belt.

"Let your tears wash away the dirt, Ms. Vic."

Trying to regain her dignity and a little fucking self-control, she swipes at the tears and shoves a mound of earth over the puke pile.

"I don't know what's happening to me. Why can't I get on the damn horse?"

"You are like the river that runs down from the mountain. The river is strong. Wild. It goes wherever it wants to go. No one can tell the river it cannot go here or there. But you have tried to force yourself to go where you were not ready."

She's learned a lot from Sarah over the last few days, but Indian wisdom still baffles her; right now, it's irritating her. And she is less than interested in having a fucking therapy session over stupid shit that should have stayed buried in the past. Blame it on the horse, Vic. Blame it on the horse and move the fuck on. She scoffs.

"What the hell does that have to do with me riding?"

"What is it you are afraid of?"

Without thinking, Vic answers.

"Falling off!"

The Indian shakes her head.

"No."

"No?"

"Falling off your horse will only hurt your body; physical pain does not scare you. What are your tears falling for? It is not pain."

Vic stares at the dark circles in the dirt where her tears have fallen, reading the stains like tea leaves. Or maybe Sarah has reached inside her and flipped over the last un-turned stone. Whatever the hell just happened, Vic can see clearly and Sarah is right. Pain doesn't scare her. Not physical pain. Not emotional pain. It's part of life. What scares her is bigger. Deeper. She stares blankly ahead and answers.

"Everything I've been through. Every single bad thing I can remember. I couldn't stop them. I couldn't stop any of them from happening. I had...I had no control."


	4. Fear Fell Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Guys, I really have to apologize. I get carried away and excited and I post before I should. I promise, I will do a better job with the rest of this story.
> 
> THIS is what chapter 3 SHOULD have been. SMDH (original Ch3 text is in italics, because I love rubbing salt into my own wounds)
> 
> I'm going to stop being so damn impatient with the rest of this, I swear.

 

**Chapter 4: Fear Fell Apart**

* * *

_"Falling off will only hurt your body, and physical pain does not scare you. What are your tears falling for?"_

"I don't want to fall off the damn horse, alright?! Jesus! What are you, some kind of red-skin psychotherapist now? Not everything is all deep-rooted psycho-babble bullshit. I don't want to fall off the fucking horse, ok!"

In the clumsy way a new-born foal stands for the first time, Vic hauls her still-shaking body up from the arena floor and moves swiftly towards Baby. Anger and fear and frustration boil through the pores in her skin. Who the hell does that old, shriveled-up Indian think she is? What the hell gives her the right to stick her fucking nose in?

The closer she gets to Baby, the more uneasy the mare becomes. Vic doesn't notice her pinned-back ears or the frantic way her tail swishes back and forth. She doesn't pick up on Baby's rapid breathing, too consumed in her indignation and panic.

Baby's neck stiffens when Vic pulls the quick-release; the horse stamps a hoof in the dirt and bobs her broad head up and down.

"What the fuck, Baby?! Stop it, dammit!"

The horse is pulling back against her; Vic tightens her grip on the reins.

Baby pulls harder, Vic counters with a snapping jerk downward and the mare reacts.

For the first time in Sarah Two Feather's memory, Baby spooks. Bounding backwards, she pulls Vic violently off her shaky legs, red dirt flying around them like rusty snowflakes.

The reins pull friction burns across the palm of her hands and Vic cries out in pain, dropping the leather straps. Once free of her anchor, the mare stops her evasion, chest heaving, nostrils flaring and eyes trained on the woman crying in the dirt.

She's losing her shit again.

Or still...

Fuck, she can't remember being this unhinged since the night she told Walt she had killed her daughter. At least that had been in front of someone she knew wouldn't judge her. Someone she trusted. Someone she loved more than any other living being.

Now she is lying in the dirt like the piece of shit she feels like, wailing and gagging in front a Cheyenne woman she barely knows. A Cheyenne woman who, Vic suddenly realizes, is kneeling in front of her, the velvety suede of her skirt pulled tight over her knees, tucked behind and covering her moccasin boots.

With a gentle hand, she pushes the splayed strands of hair from Vic's face. The tears just won't stop and her heart hurts and all she wants to be held. For something to fix the shit that seems to stay broken inside her.

Sarah slides her hand under Vic's head and gently lifts her from the dirt, laying it across her bent legs. The two women settle, Vic's tears running trails down the buckskin dress to the earth underneath them, the old woman smoothing more hair from Vic's face. Neither woman speaks. There is only the sound of Vic's quiet weeping and Baby's gentle breathing.

With a start, Vic realizes she's nearly fallen asleep in the damn dirt. How long have they been there? Christ, what kind of a disaster has she turned into? She tries to raise off Sarah's lap and feels the woman put the slightest bit of pressure across her shoulder, holding her in place. There is a strange sensation inside, a safety in the woman's kind embrace Vic has only ever felt with Walt; she abandons her escape and relaxes again.

"Why can't I get on my horse, Sarah?"

The old woman continues to stroke Vic's hair. Where Indian wisdom has confused and frustrated her before, Vic now finds herself eagerly awaiting her new friend's insight. The woman obviously has a better handle on the bat-shit-crazy woman laying in her lap than Vic has had recently.

"Because you do not trust her yet. And you will not trust her until you accept that you cannot control her."

_Vic stares at the dark trails in the suede and dark circles in the dirt, reading the tear stains like tea leaves. How she couldn't see it before will probably always piss her off. Or maybe Sarah has reached inside her and flipped something over. Whatever the hell just happened, Vic can finally put a name to the pain._

_"Everything I've been through. Every single bad thing I can remember. I couldn't stop any of them from happening. I had...I had no control."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter 5 may be the last one, but I promise to make up for all everything. Just hang with me.


End file.
